


Love

by Doctorsmelody



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlolly - Fandom
Genre: Angst, F/M, Fluff, Post-Episode: s04e03 The Final Problem, Post-The Final Problem, Sherlolly - Freeform, Spoilers, The Final Problem
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-17
Updated: 2017-01-17
Packaged: 2018-09-18 05:52:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,452
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9370967
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Doctorsmelody/pseuds/Doctorsmelody
Summary: The human body was fascinating, but the human heart…. It was fragile, ultimately, no matter what, it’s the heart that kills everyone. It can be cruel, misused, mistreated, by drink, drugs, too many calories, lack of exercise, words, actions, other people.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Hey!
> 
> I know everyone is jumping on this ship (no pun intended!) and writing about THAT scene from The Final Problem, and it made me want to throw my hat into the ring as well!
> 
> Please be kind, it's the first time I've posted, or even written Sherlolly. Any hints, tips and con-crit is gratefully welcomed!
> 
> I'd love kudos and comments as well, let me know what you think, see whether it's worth me writing more for this ship that has set sail!!!! xxx

Her job wasn’t easy. She knew that though, had always known it, had even known it before she had even started, but the science! The deductions, the piecing together the clues, helping grieving families to understand why their loved ones had died, that’s why she did it. The human body was fascinating, but the human heart…. It was fragile, ultimately, no matter what, it’s the heart that kills everyone. It can be cruel, misused, mistreated, by drink, drugs, too many calories, lack of exercise, words, actions, other people.   
She had had a bad day. There were days, not many, but there were days, when Molly wished she had picked another profession. Watching her father die, was agonising, but it intrigued her. She wanted to know why she had lost him, and that kicked started her decision to become a pathologist. Today, was one of those rare days when she wished she’d picked her back up plan, or at least one of them, and became a teacher, or a midwife, even if she worked in a restaurant washing the dishes, she didn’t really care, it would have been an improvement on today.   
There was a woman brought into the morgue. She was young, certainly younger than herself, wearing what Molly assumed was once a pretty blue dress. Now, she was lying on a slab, with a tag around her toe. According to the porter who brought her down, she had been on her way to meet her fiance, when she was hit by a car. It was only as Molly conducted the post mortem, that they learnt the young woman had been about 11 weeks pregnant. It was always harder when there was a child involved.   
Then, came the sore throat, the banging headache, the tell tale signs that she was finally coming down with the virus that seemed to be working its way around St Bart’s. On top of that, her boss decided he would take out his bad day on her, yelling at her for 20 minutes for not washing the beakers in the lab up properly.   
When she finally made it home that evening, Molly wanted nothing more than to curl up on the sofa with a book, a cup of tea and a chocolate bar, letting herself wallow in self pity for a few hours. Then, came the phone call.   
Sherlock just didn’t understand, he never understood. She loved him, had always loved him, and always would love him, and never did he acknowledge that in any way, yet he made her say it anyway. Those three little words, said by millions of people every day, should bring such happiness, but having to say it to Sherlock, felt like a kick in the stomach. Even though he said it first, he didn’t mean it, and she knew it, Sherlock Holmes wasn’t capable of love, and certainly not of showing or admitting it, yet she said it anyway. Of course she did, she would always do as he asked. Her insides melted a little every time he said her name. If nothing else, she could always imagine, when she lay in her bed alone at night, that he really did mean it, that he really did love her back, she reasoned with herself. What a pitiful life she lived, living off her fantasies of a romantic relationship with a high functioning sociopath.   
Now, she was curled up on the sofa, in the middle of the night, still crying. It was always going to be Sherlock Holmes who crushed her heart, it was always going to be Sherlock Holmes that killed her. Molly’s phone was tightly gripped in her hand, her knees close to her chest with a blanket over her legs, shutting herself off from the world. The glass of wine was empty on the floor. The tea just wasn’t going to cut it tonight. She didn’t want to see or talk to anyone.  
It was 3am when she heard her front door open, and Sherlock call her quietly from the hallway.   
“Molly?” He called, hoping she was still awake. The living room light was still on, so he tried in there first. “Molly? Are you awake?”  
He found the bundle on the sofa, her eyes closed, but she wasn’t asleep, she couldn’t fool him. Molly was breathing too harshly, her eyes moving too quickly, her fist curled around her phone too tightly for her to be asleep.   
“Molly? Wake up. I need to talk to you.” Sherlock whispered into her ear, shaking her shoulder lightly. He let her think she was fooling him with her ‘I’m asleep’ routine.  
“Please, Sherlock. Leave me alone.” She mumbled back eventually.  
“Molly, I need to talk to you. You’re the only one I can talk to.” He told her. He sat on the sofa next to her, before deciding to lay behind her, pulling Molly into his body, he didn’t know why, it just felt like something he should do, ever since he had hugged John back at their flat when he broke down all those weeks ago, he realised just how important human comfort can be. Even though Molly stiffened immediately, she didn’t pull away. How had he denied how good this felt for so long? “I’ve got a sister.” Sherlock continued eventually. Molly had never heard him sound so broken, so scared. “She’s locked up, in the highest security mental institution. I… I don’t really remember her. Mycroft, he made sure I forgot about her, told our mother and father that she had died.”   
Molly let him take a breath, not pushing him for more information. As much as he had hurt her that day, however painful it had been, Sherlock was more important than her. She needed to be there for him. That’s what you do for those you love.  
“Eurus, my sister… she murdered my best friend. I’ve gone my whole life thinking that Redbeard was my dog, but he wasn’t. He was my friend, and she killed him, because she wanted me to play with her instead. Telling myself that Redbeard had been a dog rather than another boy made it easier to come to terms with, I guess, a silly story I told myself enough times that I finally believed it.” Sherlock carried on talking softly to Molly as she turned over to face him. He told her how his sister had burnt down the family home, of the game of death that Eurus had planned, how she had tried to make Sherlock choose between his own brother and best friend, and Mycroft’s attempt at angering Sherlock to appease his guilt at having to potentially murder him, how he had had to rescue John from a well, even proudly telling her, how happy John was when he got Lestrade’s name right. He started crying, the emotions, fears and exhaustion of the day catching up with him finally, as well as a bit of stress from needing a hit more than ever, but Molly didn’t mention it. The only other time she had seen him like this, was when she had to help him to fake his death. She just wrapped an arm around his waist, shifted up a bit so he could rest his head on her chest. She figured, however asexual he came across, he was still a man, he wouldn’t object to using her chest as his pillow. He had been quiet for a long time as Molly held him, so long she thought that maybe he had fallen asleep, when he started talking again.   
“There was one other… challenge, I suppose you could call it. Eurus, she said that there were explosives hidden in your flat.” He started. Molly tightened her grip on him, closing her eyes as her head fell back against the arm of the sofa. So this was how she came into it all. “Turned out that she lied, you were never in danger, but I thought you were. There was a countdown, just three minutes, and if I didn’t get you to say the words ‘I love you’ in that time, then she would detonate the bombs. That’s why you had to do it. I need you to know, it wasn’t my decision. I could see that it was hard for it, but please realise how hard it was for me as well.” Sherlock sat up straight, looking down at Molly as he continued, needing to take regular breaks to calm his breathing. “I haven’t said those words since I was a child and I said them to my parents. It’s not easy for me to acknowledge my feelings, but, there was a coffin in the room with us, meant for you. It was the right size, had the words ‘I love you’ engraved in the top, and I knew instantly who it was meant for. When I thought you were going to hang up on me, I thought I was going to lose you. I was so scared. I’ll hold my hands up, and say that I didn’t mean it the first time I told you that I loved you, or at least, I didn’t realise that I did. Then, I’m not sure what happened, it was like my mind went mad. It was a crippling fear that I’d lose you, because we had seconds left at that point, the sweaty palms whenever I was around you, the increase in my heartbeat, how, whenever I need help, no matter what, I know I can always turn to you, it all made sense. That’s why I said it again, because in those few seconds, after getting over the fear of saying it for the first time, I knew that it was true. I could say it, and the second time, I meant it. When you were all looking after me, in our own version of rehab, John told me that chances are over before you know it. That I didn’t realise how lucky I was to have someone alive who loved me, he thought it was the woman, but she’s not the one who loved me, not the real me. It’s you, it’s always been you, but I’ve only just seen it.”   
Sherlock looked at Molly, smiling gently at the wide eyed look she gave him. Her hair was messy, her cheeks lined with tear tracks, her jumper was scruffy and stretched, it had seen far better days, but there was something enchanting about it. He had always thought beauty was a social construct, it meant different things to different people. The only things Sherlock had ever found beautiful were things like music, or sometimes nature. Not people, never people, but Molly was. He found her beautiful, even in her current state.   
“I know I forced you to say I love you, even though you said it was true, but I need you to know that I know. You aren’t part of a game, or an experiment, you aren’t a case to solve, or a thing for me to deduce. You are a human, one of the most loving people I have ever met, you will do, would do, have done, anything I ever ask of you, no matter what it means to you. I never realised until today what I’ve put you through. Eurus said she did it to show me how emotions get in the way, how they can break us, but in fact, it did the opposite. It made me realise that I have always been capable of anything with you. From saving you from Eurus’s plan, to successfully faking my own death for two years. If we can do that, imagine what else we could do.”   
Molly looked down at their hands, when had he taken her small hands in his large ones? Her brain was working overtime, trying to comprehend everything he was saying.  
“What are you saying Sherlock?” She asked after a few moments awkward silence, needing clarification. She took a deep, steadying breath as she looked into his eyes. They always betrayed him, those beautiful eyes of his.   
“I’m saying… I love you Molly Hooper, and I would like it if, we could, be more than friends?” He asked.  
Instantly, Molly was on top of him, pushing him back down onto the sofa, her lips on his, her hands under his jacket and in his hair. How she had always wondered what those luscious black curls would feel like in her fingers !  
“I love you too Sherlock Holmes.” She mumbled into his skin. Their mouths both tasted of tears, but they loved each other, and that was all that was important. “I love you. I love you. I love you.”  
It had been a long time since anyone had kissed Sherlock like this, he hadn’t even gone this far with Janine or the woman, but Molly got his engines burning.   
“Molly.” He said, pushing her away, ever so slightly so he could speak. “I need you to know, this is a massive step for me. I’m still me though, I’m still the arrogant, rude, obnoxious arsehole who doesn’t really care about other people, I’m not going to be an easy... boyfriend, I suppose, but I’ll try my best. I’ve said some awful things to you in the past, and I apologize for that. I can’t promise that I never will again, but I can promise you, I vow, that I will always, always try.”  
“Sherlock, I know that you are an arrogant, rude, obnoxious arsehole, and I love you in spite of it, and a little bit because of it. Now, are you coming up to my bed, or not?”   
Molly stood up quickly, holding her hand out to him. Finally, after so many years, things had worked out. She knew it wouldn’t be easy, but her bad day, seemed a bit brighter now. There was hope, and with Sherlock by her side, she knew they could do anything. It was a new beginning.  
Sherlock didn’t know what was in store for him in the future, he hadn’t had a relationship since he was in university, and even then, it was more about the sex and drugs than the love and romance of it, but he had a feeling, Mycroft would laugh it off as a premonition, that everything would be ok. Molly had always been the best one to keep him off of the drugs, and there wasn’t a doubt in his mind that she would continue to do so. She was always there to help him take out his anger, and she still would be. She always did the best by him, and he would try, to always do the same.

**Author's Note:**

> Just to clarify, I don't own any of this, and the only thing I'll get from it is (hopefully) lots of lovely comments. Full credit goes to Arthur Conan Doyle, Steven Moffat, Mark Gatiss et al, for creating such wonderful characters, stories and scripts in the first place.


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